


Ashes on The Water

by Jikatabi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Pre-Canon, Rape by third party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 19:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11974083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jikatabi/pseuds/Jikatabi
Summary: A group of criminals, having kidnapped Yakov and Victor, decide to make them play a terrible game.





	Ashes on The Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kink meme prompt](https://yurionicekink.dreamwidth.org/881.html?thread=257649#cmt257649):  
> Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it

None of them were paying any attention to Yakov, not even the woman who still had a hand clutched in his jacket and who was supposed to be making sure he didn't try anything – not that there was anything he could do in this situation, at least not now.

None of them, that was, except for Victor, who had barely looked away from Yakov since they were kidnapped. Cheerful, fearless Victor who had been smiling and chattering like normal only an hour ago, and who now, for the first time Yakov could remember, looked terrified under the façade of calm he was trying to plaster over his face. He kept looking at Yakov with his eyes gone huge, as though Yakov knew exactly what to do, as though he could fix this.

Yakov wished those things were true, too, especially since the moment they'd been forced into this dusty room with its boarded-up windows. Aside from the bits of stone and metal scattered in the corners on the bare concrete floor, the only thing in here, besides the people with knives and guns, was a wooden chair. Sitting in the chair was a man, a leader of some kind, who might have been handsome if it weren't for the cruel twist to his smile.

Yakov had been able to tell, right away, that this man probably liked young, pretty things. Probably liked breaking them. And Victor was young, only a teenager, and very, very pretty.

"Oh, what have we here," the man had said, his eyes lighting up as Victor was pulled in after Yakov. Yakov had been shoved to the side, unable to do anything with the gun trained on him, heart sinking as he realized that no, they wouldn't just be put in a side room while some ransom was demanded. The faint hope had turned to a sick feeling as Victor was walked up to the man, who was already running his eyes up and down his frame. "Perhaps we could have some real fun while we wait to hear about the money," he said, and several of the other people in the room had started looking quite pleased, too.

And then he'd pulled Victor sideways into his lap, causing laughter to break out. Put an arm around his shoulders. Touched a hand to his face and laughed as Victor tried to flinch away. He hadn't even untied Victor's hands from behind his back, so Victor was left struggling to keep his balance as he attempted to move away.

If Yakov had thought shouting would help, he would have yelled himself hoarse right then. But his hands were tied, too, and there were a good dozen people in here, all armed. If he reminded them of his existence, as they gradually became distracted by their leader playing with Victor, he wasn't sure what they would do to enjoy both of them suffering at once.

The man pulled the elastic from Victor's braid and started to undo it slowly. "What lovely hair," he said. "So long. And it really is silver, can all of you see it? I thought it was just editing in the pictures, and he was really platinum blond, or maybe bleach, but no, even his eyelashes are silver."

"Are you sure we can't keep him?" someone called out.

"I'm starting to consider it," the leader said with a laugh.

Victor kept looking back at Yakov, his breath picking up. That calm front of his was beginning to break. Yakov wasn't sure if he'd ever felt so awful for not doing anything, so angry at his own helplessness. Here was Victor, begging him for help, and Yakov had always tried to help him, when it was reasonable, and here he was, doing nothing. Surely – there had to be something, surely, if only for a short while. To buy some time. He was fairly certain that the police were looking for them. Maybe he _should_ make a nuisance of himself and see if they wanted to make Victor cry by hurting him, instead of watching him protest as they kept running their hands over Victor. Or maybe their idea of fun would be even worse, which was the only thing keeping him still for the moment.

"Lovely," the leader said again as he finished pulling apart the top of the braid. He ran his hand down Victor's hair, brought part of it forward over his shoulder. "I can't imagine why you would ever put it back. Hiding it. Why did you have it back?" He was trying to catch Victor's gaze; it worked, for a moment, before Victor's eyes skittered to the ground, then back to Yakov, and then back to the ground. "Hm? Why did you braid it?" He tugged on the section he was holding. "Come on, you can speak, can't you?"

Victor glanced at Yakov, who jerked his chin down. Yes, play along, don't let him get angry yet, he tried to communicate. Maybe it worked, because Victor swallowed and looked back at the leader. "It was in the way," he said, and his voice only trembled a little. He was being so brave. Yakov hoped that would help in some way.

"I see." The leader stopped playing with Victor's hair and touched his face again, crooked a finger under his jaw and went to kiss him. Already? Yakov bit back a curse. Victor tried to fling himself back. He almost tumbled off the man's lap and to the floor, and was only barely caught in time. "Come on," the man said. "It's just a little kiss. It's not gonna hurt." He tried once more, but Victor squirmed and turned his face away, the disgust and fear evident in his expression.

Eventually, the man tired of this and grabbed Victor, jerked him in and forced him into a kiss. Yakov watched him struggle even more, heard him make a little cry, and felt sick. Felt furious. This man had no right to be touching anyone, let alone Victor, who for all his annoying points had done absolutely _nothing_ to deserve being hurt. Who had no business reeling as the man let him go, looking like he was on the verge of angry tears, when he should have been cooing over his spoiled dog or trying to convince Yakov of his latest crazy idea for his programs or sitting in the window and studying that French textbook he'd been so attached to lately.

"He's a fighter," someone chuckled, though Yakov could barely hear over the sound of his teeth grinding against each other.

"Good," the man said, sliding his arm from Victor's shoulders to his waist, pulling him closer, leering. "It's always so much fun when they—"

Yakov couldn't stand to see it for a second longer. "Get your hands _off_ him," he snarled, stepping forward and pulling his surprised guard along with him.

Everyone else started and looked over at him. "Oh," the man said after a second of staring. His eyes slid to the woman, who had readied her gun again. Yakov noticed, though, that she wasn't holding it right. "Weren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on that one?"

"I'm very sorry, sir, it won't happen again."

"It's fine," he said, still eyeing Yakov, who kept glaring at him. "Although, you know... why don't we play a game? What do you think, pretty?" he asked Victor, tugging on his hair again, that creepy grin on his face. "I'll even let you choose what we play."

"What are you talking about?"

Yakov was pretty sure he had an idea after the man helped Victor to his feet and stood himself, then gestured for Yakov to be brought closer. "Untie his hands."

Victor looked lost. The leader was still holding him firmly by the shoulder, and he cringed away when he went after his hair again. Yakov kept his eyes squarely on the man as he rubbed his freed wrists. Following more directions, he shrugged off his trench coat as slowly as he dared (anything to buy more time), then draped it on the back of the chair before sitting down. He put his hands on the arms and stared back at the leader.

"This is your coach, isn't he, pretty. How long's he been teaching you?"

Victor sent him a questioning look. Yakov made a tiny motion again. Anything that would keep him talking instead of touching. "I don't know." Victor paused. "Seven or eight years?"

"You like him? Is he nice to you?"

"Yes?" Victor leaned away as the man tugged him in, started to play with the hem of his shirt.

"How nice?" he asked in a teasing tone.

Yakov try to banish the nausea he felt at where this was going. Victor didn't seem to get it, or if he did, hid it well; his eyebrows knit together with confusion. The man laughed, and Yakov was ready for him to ask something more blunt, or at least lewd enough that Victor would catch on, but apparently he decided that it would be more fun to force Victor into another kiss, rough and long.

Yakov's hands tightened on the arms of the chair until he could hear the wood creak, aching to get up and do something. If only there weren't so many of them. He would have enjoyed dragging this man off Victor and punching him in the face.

"Here's the game, pretty," the leader said when he finally released Victor, who panted and tried to pull away from him. "Option number one." And he threw Victor into Yakov's lap.

Yakov caught him before he could overbalance, or fall back on the ground. Victor struggled to right himself without the use of his hands, but then he snapped his head up and stared at Yakov, expression blank.

"You let your dear, precious coach fuck you first," the leader continued, prompting another outburst of laughs with some comments thrown in. "Or, you decide that you'd rather he just watch from up close as we have some fun. What will it be? Oh, wait, you're nice and young, aren't you? Maybe it's not fair to ask you to make such a big decision. I should be asking your coach. Which will it be, Mr. Feltsman?"

Yakov spared a moment to glower at him over Victor's shoulder – which only made him grin more widely – before looking back at Victor. From this close, he could see the bruise starting to form on Victor's jaw, the way that he was trembling. "Vitya," he murmured lowly, hoping it might calm him momentarily. Which option would hurt him less? One would give them more time, hopefully, but the thought of forcing Victor through something so cruel was making him taste bile at the back of his tongue. But watching these people do it instead, letting them touch him without even delaying them, seemed just as awful for Victor.

Victor ducked his head, though due to the way he was kneeling on the chair, Yakov could still see his face through his hair falling around it. He mouthed something; Yakov wasn't an accomplished lipreader, but it looked like _please_. Please _what_? That didn't tell him anything. He tilted his head, and Victor glanced up at him, pleading. Scared. His fingers were digging into Yakov's arm where it had caught him behind his back, to the point of pain. Another word – no, two. _Not them_.

Fine. If Victor preferred it this way, then fine. Yakov would make himself do it. He could try to be as kind as he could, try to make it not hurt, at least. And if, even with that, Victor couldn't stand to be near him afterward – if it came to it, and there was nothing else to do, Yakov could help him find a new coach. He had connections. Almost anyone would be willing to take him on, no matter how disobedient he was, with his natural grace and beautiful skating and the way he cheerfully followed his whims to such effect.

He heard feet shuffling. They were getting impatient. He slowly wrapped an arm around Victor, glared up again. "I'll do it," he growled. Victor's hand tightened even further on his arm, then relaxed.

If only a look could kill. The leader looked far too pleased (and healthy) as he smiled at Yakov and took a couple steps back. "Then by all means. Get started."

Yakov held back a sigh and looked at Victor again. He could feel the weight of a dozen stares on the two of them, which he did his best to ignore. Victor still trembled, and his breath was too fast for Yakov's liking. "Vitya," he murmured again, slowly pulling his arm from Victor's grip and rubbing his back. "Shhh." Victor closed his eyes, swallowed, and started to get his breathing under better control. Yakov reached a hand up, then hesitated; Victor liked having his hair stroked on the rare occasion that he was sick or seriously upset, but Yakov wondered if he would want him to after the leader had been playing with it a few minutes ago. But Victor leaned into his hand, so he ran it down the length a couple of times, combed his fingers through the soft, fine strands once. He seemed much calmer now. Good. "Aren't you going to untie his hands?"

The leader looked around. "Anyone here think he needs his hands? Anyone?" Silence. "No? I don't think so, either."

Yakov frowned. That meant that he would have to take a bit more care – now that Victor was up properly in the chair, straddling Yakov's lap, he should be able to keep himself upright, at least.

Someone shuffled in place, shoes scraping against the concrete. Yakov cursed inside his head again, and hoped he'd be able to take this slowly for Victor's sake. Not that he especially wanted to draw it out, but the longer Yakov had his hands on him, the longer the police had to find them, and the longer it would be before these people who wanted to hurt him would get to touch him. Hoped that they would be willing to wait for what they thought was their turn, so long as they got their entertainment, the show they wanted to see the two of them put on.

He slid his hand to Victor's cheek and cupped it gently, ran his thumb along his cheekbone, underneath one large blue eye. Victor blinked at him and ducked his head into it for a moment, enough that Yakov could feel his eyelashes brushing his skin. His stare was uncomfortable, and while he no longer looked as scared as he had before, Yakov could still read _please help me_ and _you know what to do, right?_ in them. It didn't help Yakov's ill feeling at all, which sat heavy in his stomach. So he closed his own eyes as he started to tug Victor in, tilting his head.

He had intended for it to be a gentle kiss – not very exciting to watch, perhaps, but something to ease Victor into it. It wasn't, but that wasn't his fault; it was Victor who smashed their lips together, to his surprise, bruisingly hard. Yakov had to push at him until it was no longer painful, and he had to dig his fingers in Victor's hair and urge him back a bit more for it to be anywhere close to _nice._ Eventually, he gave up on it and managed to pull away.

Victor bit his lip. He was jittering with nerves again – maybe he was trying to get this over with as fast as possible. Yakov pulled his head down, both to give him a moment to calm again and to be able to whisper in his ear, "They want us to make a show for them, Vitya," in case he hadn't picked up on that point yet. Victor was a natural-born performer. As long as he wasn't too scared, he could probably play it up for the people watching them. He felt Victor nod slightly.

One of the men was laughing. "Looks like he has a crush on his coach, don't you think?"

"Poor kid's practically gagging for it."

"Hah, guess it's the old man who won't put out."

Thankfully, Victor seemed to be ignoring their stupid commentary as he leaned back and let Yakov guide them into another kiss. Softer, this time, and actually – as far as the physical sensations went, it was pleasant. Warm, a little wet from Victor's teeth digging into his lip, and he could feel Victor relaxing against him as the kiss went on. He tucked a hand around his neck, moved a little, kept it slow, tried to turn off all the higher brain functions that wanted to think about their situation and their audience and who exactly it was in his lap.

When they broke apart, it was Victor who pushed up for a second kiss, a third, made a small noise when Yakov pulled away again. There was a light, becoming flush to his cheeks, and he didn't look distressed, and for just a moment Yakov almost would have been able to forget that they were being made to kiss and soon other things, that the pink cheeks weren't from the chill outside.

...not that he would have had Victor straddling his lap, otherwise. But at least he didn't look miserable. That was an improvement.

Yakov paid no attention to the comments on how pretty Victor looked and kissed him again. Opened his mouth, this time, and Victor caught on, let him push his tongue into his mouth. Yakov drew back enough to make it more visible, and the voices around them died instantly.

It took Victor a while to start responding instead of simply letting himself be kissed – which was fine, and more than understandable. But it didn't help Yakov feel any less uncomfortable, both because it reminded him of how neither of them wanted to do this, and because frankly, it was unappealing to kiss someone who just sat there. Eventually, though, Victor shifted in his lap and changed the angle, made some effort at kissing back before leaning away. Yakov couldn't quite read his expression now, as it was too blank, but hopefully that meant he was doing okay. The flush had deepened and turned his whole face red, and hot under his fingers when he went to brush some strands of hair out of Victor's eyes.

Nobody was telling them to move on, yet, so Yakov moved his fingers down to Victor's jaw, though he didn't put any pressure on it. He waited for Victor to swallow, adjust his shoulders, and start to lean in again before kissing him. Victor was clearly trying to seem more enthusiastic this time, pushing his tongue against Yakov's and making some noises that sounded very fake to Yakov's ears. He heard a deep voice chuckling somewhere to the left. "Look at that, boss, guess he likes it after all."

When Victor took a moment to catch his breath, Yakov glanced around his head and saw the leader smirking. He felt his own lip curl in response, and masked it by pressing his mouth to Victor's cheek. Victor turned and caught it with his own mouth, though the angle was a bit strange and made Yakov worried enough about his ability to balance that he slid a hand down Victor's back to make sure he didn't tip over backward or, more likely, strain a muscle somewhere.

He had been half-expecting to start feeling something from this now that Victor was participating, especially given how long it had been for him – since before his divorce. Even if he didn't want to be doing this with _Victor_ , surely his body wouldn't know the difference. But the thing was, Victor wasn't any good at these deeper kisses. He kept knocking their teeth together, or accidentally coming close to biting his tongue. Yakov couldn't help but wonder if it was nerves, or focusing on making it look good for their audience, or if it was just plain inexperience. And _that_ lead to the thought of whether Victor had ever slept with anyone before, maybe one of those other teenagers making eyes at him at a competition. Yakov very much did not want to know about his students' sex lives, beyond reminding them to be sensible and safe about it, but please let this not be his first time. This situation was bad enough already.

"Get on with it," someone snapped, making Victor start and break the kiss. A minor argument erupted among their kidnappers when someone else elbowed him and said that this was the best part. Even the leader dragged his eyes away from Victor to look amused at his subordinates' disagreement.

It seemed very strange to him, but it did give them a few moments for themselves. Victor tucked his head into the side of the Yakov's neck and panted.

"Vitya?" He touched Victor's hair.

"I'm fine," Victor whispered, and he so clearly wasn't that it caused a twist in his gut. If only there was something else to do. If only there weren't so _many_ of them. A spat wasn't going to distract a dozen armed people enough to even think of trying to fight back.

"Your hands?"

Victor wriggled them. "They're fine." They weren't changing color, either, so the rope wasn't tied too tightly.

The argument was already resolving as some members intervened and shoved people apart. "Go on," the leader said.

Victor stayed slumped against Yakov for another few seconds, but then he took a shuddering breath and straightened. He rolled his shoulders – they were probably getting stiff from being kept in one position for so long – and tilted his head back slightly.

Lilia had liked the line of his neck. Yakov could remember her commenting on it, one afternoon at the rink, as Victor practiced a program. He could hear her voice as he touched Victor's throat, pale and too vulnerable, soft under his dry fingertips. Victor tilted his head back a little further as Yakov's hand slid down it to where the first button of his shirt was already undone.

The thought of stripping Victor in front of all these people was another unpleasant one. He didn't _need_ to, in order to do what they wanted. But they looked like they were expecting it, and even Victor looked like he was, and it would get them a few minutes. Maybe more than a few, if the people around them liked watching foreplay enough.

Victor tensed when Yakov slid his hand under the shirt to wrap around the juncture of his neck and shoulder – then forcibly, visibly relaxed. Yakov gave him a moment, kissing his neck to give them something to look at, before undoing the next button on his shirt, letting his hand move slowly down the skin. He managed to find the pulse point with his lips and kept them there as he worked on the rest of the buttons, felt how Victor's heart pounded harder as more and more buttons were undone.

Yakov sighed as he straightened up. Now he was the one who needed a moment, eyes shut against the sight in front of him. And then he kept going. Pushed the shirt open more widely until most of Victor's chest was visible. Drew his hands down Victor's neck, past his collar, skipped down to settle them at his waist for now. Victor seemed smaller like this, thinner, with his shirt hanging loose and Yakov's hands covering most of his waist.

"Hey, boss, I thought of a reason to untie his hands," someone said, craning to get a better look at Victor's torso underneath his open shirt.

"Yeah, no sense in covering anything up," someone else chimed in.

"True," the leader said. "Hm, although... I don't think we need to untie him to get a better look. Not when he looks so good like that." He tapped the arm of a woman standing a few feet away. "Get it off him, would you?"

She drew a knife and approached. Victor twisted around to see what was going on, and when he saw the knife, he shifted closer to Yakov. He wasn't visibly nervous, but Yakov rubbed his shoulder anyway. "Sshh, Vitya. Keep still." He swept Victor's hair off his neck and brought it around in front, so it wouldn't be in the way of the knife.

He watched the woman carefully as she slid the knife over the ropes, into the cuff of Victor's shirt, and started to cut it off. It had to be nerve-wracking, feeling her slice into the fabric right next to his skin, unable to see most of it. Victor stayed very, very still as she cut up each sleeve, up his back, and pulled the fabric away. Yakov grudgingly admitted to himself that for what it was, she did a good job; she stayed in control of her blade and didn't make the smallest cut on Victor's skin, and didn't even pause to ogle the newly-revealed muscle. She was quick, professional, and didn't hurt him, and when she was done, she tossed the scraps of the shirt to the side and went back to her place, face blank.

There was a long moment where everyone around them stared at Victor. "Isn't this kid a dancer or something?" said one man. "He's got nice shoulders, considering."

"Don't you pay attention to anything? He skates," someone else corrected. Yakov could _see_ how those eyes swept down Victor's spine, then back up again.

When the talking died down, Victor shifted, then tossed his hair over his shoulder with a throw of his head. This was apparently very impressive to their captors, and he did get most of it off his chest; Yakov pushed one of the stray strands off his collar as there were more comments, some admiring, a couple disparaging, more than a few speculating on how it would look with their hand grabbing it or if they pulled Victor down and—

Yakov put a hand back on Victor's waist and encouraged him up a few centimeters into a more comfortable position. He didn't look quite as small now, and it wasn't like he was delicate despite the impression his pretty, flowing costumes tended to give, but he seemed – vulnerable, perhaps. Like someone could overpower him. He still had growing to do, muscle to put on; perhaps someday soon he would start to grow out of this slender build that made it so easy for him to play the lithe, fey dancer, both on and off the ice, but not yet.

The flush on his face had extended almost to his collar by now. Yakov could see the bones there moving – he was breathing too hard and too much, and only just disguising it. But their captors were settling back into their positions, a few playing with a shirt hem or belt, ready for more. There wasn't time to try and calm him, or a way to give him more seconds to calm himself.

Yakov felt awful as he did it, but he reached up with his free hand and drew his fingers across the smooth skin of Victor's chest. Victor's eyes, still glued on his, still looking so desperate, did not make it any easier to touch him, and Yakov had a hard time looking away as he found one nipple with his hand. At first, Victor made a few fake noises, kept shifting – half the time away from the touch, not into it, not that anyone else seemed to either notice or care – but then Yakov adjusted his hand, accidentally pressed harder just as Victor leaned in, and—

Victor gasped and rolled up into his touch, then ground down into Yakov's lap. He froze for a moment, before he ducked his head and peered up at Yakov. His eyes had suddenly gone very wide, and so had his pupils.

The chatter had started up again. Laughter. They were enjoying this. They were enjoying Victor's reaction. They were enjoying seeing Yakov make him get off. Yakov had not felt so sick in a long time.

Victor pressed his lips together, and then carefully wiped his face blank. Sat up again. He intentionally pushed into Yakov's hand this time, flexed his shoulders, made a soft little sound. But his eyes were somewhere past Yakov's head, and his cheeks could not possibly get any redder.

Yakov wanted very much to sigh and let his hand slip away. (He wanted _very_ much to stop, but that option wasn't anywhere near the table, so he tossed it to the side and ignored it for his own sake.)

Instead, he kept it up, tried to give Victor a few seconds of reprieve here and there by running a hand up his back, instead, or curving fingers around the nape of his neck for a few moments. Victor avoided his eyes, but did a good job at playing up his reactions.

Well, it was pretty obviously fake from Yakov's perspective, and as someone who had been subjected to Victor's dramatics for years. Their captors seemed to believe it, though, or maybe they just liked to watch Victor moving around in his lap, occasionally trying to hide behind his hair, making all of those sounds.

But even still, they eventually started to tire of the sight. Yakov let his hands drift down to Victor's hips, just above his belt. Before he could go for the buckle, though, Victor shoved their lips back together, pushed into Yakov when he reflexively leaned away. Was he trying to stall a bit more? Yakov let him, let him take another uncomfortable kiss, and another, until his energy seemed to run out and he slumped against Yakov's chest.

He paused to stroke Victor's hair once, and after he did so, Victor lifted his head and met his eyes for a moment.

Then he jammed his face into Yakov's shoulder. He heard a tiny, tiny whimper right in his ear. Oh, Vitya. Yakov rested a hand on his back for a moment, felt him jerk – he wasn't going to cry, was he? Yakov knew what to do with a crying person – pat their back, give them water afterward, maybe let them cry into his shoulder if necessary, attempt to solve the real problem – but that would hardly work here. He had a sudden mental image of their captors jeering at him to continue as Victor sobbed, and he had to force it away as it made him feel another wave of nausea. Besides, Victor was brave; Yakov believed (hoped) in his ability to hold it together for a while longer.

"Do we need to get a knife again?" the leader asked, and Yakov's attention snapped to him. He had the most unbearable smile on.

Yakov's glare made it falter, though only slightly, and then he raised an eyebrow.

No, he did not want anyone cutting the rest of Victor's clothes off. On top of his many other objections to the idea, Victor was wearing jeans; it would be much more difficult to slice through the denim without hurting him than it had been with the shirt. So Yakov reached down and started to undo his belt blindly. Victor drew in a deep gasp as he got it open and went for the fastenings, but he stayed still. He didn't start to cry, either. That was good. He could cry all he liked when they were out of here, if he wanted, when he had his dog to cuddle with and there was nobody who was going to start going on about how pretty he looked crying or talk about how they wanted to lick the tears from his cheeks.

Yakov didn't look as he started to pull down his jeans and underwear. It turned out to be rather tricky to get them off, given the way Victor was sitting and how his hands were still tied, especially given that Victor didn't seem very inclined towards moving to help make it easier (not that Yakov could blame him). At least nobody stepped forward to 'help', just stared, looking far too eager.

Finally, he finished wrestling them off, and the fabric hit the floor. "Socks, too," the leader said. Yakov bit back a comment about how no, he did _not_ want to see Victor's battered feet; it didn't seem worth it. (Though the thought did come into his mind of hoping they wouldn't make Victor walk around on this filthy, hard floor barefoot.) He hooked his fingers under the fabric and peeled both of them off, one and then the other. Victor's toes curled as they were exposed.

He slid his hands back onto Victor's hips, careful to avoid the bruises Victor had accumulated from practice, and sighed to himself. He still couldn't see most of Victor, given how he was doing his best to plaster himself against Yakov's front, but he could feel that Victor was hard. The teasing had served its purpose.

And now should he – should he move on as quickly as possible, or touch him? Which would be better for Victor, less terrible? The room was very quiet as Yakov ran his thumbs over Victor's hipbones, trying to think. It didn't look like they would be getting anything to make this easier, and Victor was scared; he could feel how tense he was under his fingers. If he came, first, his body would relax, and then it might not hurt as much, physically.

Yakov hated that he had to make that decision. But he made it, and he forced his hand from Victor's hip to touch him. Victor gave a light moan as Yakov stroked him slowly, so low that Yakov could barely hear him.

"The view'd be better if he was turned around," someone commented.

The leader said, "You'll get your fill of looking later. Let him enjoy the comfort of his dear coach's face for a while longer."

Yakov felt another pulse of anger at the chuckles that erupted at the words, but there was nothing to do for it. He stroked Victor again, getting little reaction except harder breathing as he started to find a pace. This couldn't take that long, not with a teenager. But it was awkward, and he was startled into stopping when the leader clicked his tongue.

"You're not going to get him off yet, are you?" he asked. "That's no fun, is it? Much more enjoyable for everyone if you make him come on your cock." Fine. So Yakov let him go and started to move his hand towards his mouth – spit would be better than nothing – only for the leader to tilt his head and add, with that terrible grin he kept putting on, "And I think he should help out with that."

...of course. Of course they would want to see that. But if Victor had paid any attention to the words, he wasn't moving. Yakov tried to shift him as gently as possible, but when that didn't work – when Victor remained very stubbornly stuck to him for someone who didn't have the use of his arms – he pulled lightly on his hair. "Vitya."

That got him to move, sitting up again. Face blank. Yakov put his fingers to his lips, and Victor didn't just open his mouth and let Yakov slide them in; he lunged his head forward to get them in there, and bit his knuckles.

It was probably an accident, but it was painful; Yakov winced. The people surrounding them didn't notice, or were too busy enjoying watching Victor with fingers in his mouth. Victor still didn't look at him, stared somewhere under Yakov's jaw as he sucked on his fingers, then did something with his tongue to coat them further in saliva.

Neither of them seemed to want to draw this out. Victor opened his mouth; Yakov withdrew his fingers. He was a little surprised that Victor didn't go back to hiding his face. He just sat there, expression almost gone, except for the pronounced downturn to the corners of his lips, the way that he kept his eyes down. Victor never lowered his eyes even when he was scolded or unhappy.

Yakov drew Victor's head towards his, dipped down so he could murmur into Victor's hair somewhere near his ear. "Vitya, I know it's difficult, but if you can make your body relax, it will be easier."

"Okay," Victor breathed. Then, a moment later, he said something even more quietly, which Yakov couldn't catch. He shifted his head up a centimeter and repeated himself: "Will it hurt?"

The twist in Yakov's stomach that had never gone away sharpened. He'd never seen a use in lying to his students. "It might. I'll try to help."

"Okay." He could see Victor's jaw set, and he started to take better control of his breathing. Good. He was trying. It would have to do.

Victor's expression hadn't otherwise changed, but he was looking at Yakov again. He flinched a little – just a little – as Yakov reached between his legs, eased a finger into him. Then he shuttered his face again, took a deep breath; Yakov could almost count along with him, in, _one, two, three_ , out.

He could feel the room go stiller, everyone gone silent and content to look for now. The heavy weight of their stares was better than their words, at least.

He matched his next breath with Victor's, tried to relax along with him. The stressed tension in his back and shoulders was starting to get painful. He didn't let it build again as he started to work in a second finger. Victor's breath stuttered, though, and Yakov paused for a second. Then he took another breath, slow and deliberate, and this time he could see Victor try to follow it. Could see his shoulders lose tension and shift down as he breathed out, could – feel him relaxing around his fingers. Better.

Yakov put his other hand on his lower back to help support him, and Victor grabbed it with one of his. Squeezed it before letting go. Yakov didn't know what that meant – looking for comfort, trying to say he was okay, reassuring him that he could still feel his hands. Someone in their audience went, " _Aww_."

Someone else started to say, "Are you sure we can't turn him—"

"Shut the fuck up," their leader said. His smile was gone now, and his eyes were intent as Yakov slid a third finger in.

When it felt like they were as ready as they could get in this situation, Yakov withdrew his fingers. He wasted no time in undoing his own trousers and pulling himself out. He was looking somewhere near Victor's ear, but he could still see how Victor's eyes flickered down, up, down, up, though at least his breath stayed steady.

He was harder than he had thought he would end up. It seemed his body wasn't entirely immune to a pretty teenager squirming around in his lap, no matter if either of them wanted to be there.

Victor kept fidgeting as he stroked himself to full hardness. (Their audience, thankfully, apparently felt no need to comment on Yakov's body as they had constantly done with Victor.) On either side of him, Yakov could feel that Victor's legs were trembling slightly. How long had this been going on for, now, with nobody coming to help?

He gave himself an extra few seconds with his hand, and then there was no putting it off any longer. Despite the heavy dread he felt, he encouraged Victor to sit up on his knees, made sure he was well-supported. Yakov felt frustrated, again, at the fact that Victor's arms were tied behind him, that Victor couldn't hold on to him, as Victor glanced to the side and rolled out his shoulders. He met Yakov's gaze once more, made a little 'ah', looked down again. "Slowly," Yakov breathed, not moving his lips. "Shh."

So Victor went slowly, still breathing deliberately, lowering himself not quite smoothly, but rather in tiny jerks. Yakov guided himself in with one hand, and then – Victor took a quick, small gasp of breath, but he didn't stop. He kept sinking, slow, and Yakov let him take all the time he needed. Watched his face. At some point, Victor's teeth caught on his lip, and by the time Yakov was most of the way into him, there had been several flashes of discomfort, each discarded in a second. It seemed like he might have forced himself through the last of it – a more pained expression, less short, a momentary clenched jaw – but then he was seated all the way in Yakov's lap, and Yakov was inside him, and Yakov's dread had settled into an even heavier sense of inevitability. So it was happening.

He found himself holding Victor more tightly than he perhaps should have, and forced his hands to relax.

Yakov would have been willing to wait and let him adjust, if it was any other time. Victor was clearly uncomfortable – hopefully not in real pain and disguising it – but it seemed that the patience of their audience had run out. "Hurry up and fuck him!" someone shouted.

"I'm fine," Victor whispered. "You can—" He whimpered a little as Yakov adjusted his hold on him. "Ah, wait, can...." He pulled his knees forward and closer to Yakov, shifted his lower legs on the chair, with an end result of curling closer to Yakov and presumably distributing his weight more comfortably. One of their captors crooned about how cute it looked. Of all the absurd....

When he was done moving, Yakov helped pull him up. Let him work his way down. Closed his eyes, because it had been so long, and physically... _physically_ , it felt very, very good. When he pulled Victor up again, he managed not to tug him right back down, but he couldn't stop his hips from thrusting up into him. The moan that it produced from Victor didn't sound all that fake.

He had to open his eyes to make sure that wasn't pain. If it had been, Victor didn't give an indication, his gaze fixed firmly on somewhere distant. But he leaned a little closer to Yakov, made another sound when Yakov rolled his hips up again. Maybe a little pained, but it wasn't just that.

It worked better with Yakov putting in most of the effort, carefully controlling the thrust of his hips and helping Victor move. Victor tried, for a while, awkwardly met his thrusts with movements of his hips, but at some point he started to let Yakov direct him. He still winced sometimes, but didn't otherwise act like he was in a lot of pain, which was good, and he hadn't gone soft at all, either.

Yakov could have done without all the fake gasps and sounds, but once again, their captors seemed to like it. They liked it when a shudder went up Victor's spine, and a quieter noise was drawn from him; they liked it when Victor pushed in for another kiss, shallow and lifeless; they liked it when Yakov brushed his hair from his face and tucked it behind his ear, though he was sure it would fall forward again anyway.

Victor made another face after one thrust – maybe it had been too forceful – and Yakov let him take some of the rhythm back over. Took one hand off his waist and touched him. Victor's eyes fluttered closed as he moaned. He didn't open them again, kept rocking down into Yakov. Pressed his lips together, but then let more gasps spill out moments later.

Nobody objected this time as Yakov stroked, trying to time it with their movements. For a few minutes, the awareness of their captors around them, even some of the disgust, faded to the back of his mind as he let himself be distracted by the physical sensations – Victor so hot under his hands, his hips slippery with sweat, his cock starting to go slick with precome, his body tight around Yakov as he moved, the sounds he was making rising in pitch, the way he ground harder down into Yakov's lap.

He could just hear Victor whimper, "Ya...." and then he shoved his head forward and bit Yakov's shirt, came shuddering over his hand as his knees pressed hard into Yakov's hips.

"Aw, I wanted to see his face."

"Oh, come on, it's not going to be _that_ cute."

"Hey, he's young, this isn't going to be the last time tonight."

"You should take pictures next time."

 _Shut up_ , Yakov thought, but didn't voice, clutching a panting Victor to him with one hand and trying to figure out what to do with the other. Maybe he could clean it with one of those scraps of Victor's shirt still right there at his feet.

He could feel when Victor let go of his shirt, breath hot on his neck for a few moments before he drew back. He swallowed, took some seconds to entirely regain his balance and stop leaning into Yakov's arm, then looked down and swallowed again.

"Hand," he whispered. "They'll like...."

Ah. Yakov sighed. He was still thinking of their 'performance' even now. "Really, Vitya," he murmured, but he raised his hand up anyway. Victor closed his eyes and leaned forward to lick it clean.

Well. He was right. The leader's eyes, in particular, lit up. Yakov could hardly look away, either, as Victor licked across his palm, his pink tongue darting out to get between his fingers before sucking them into his mouth for a few seconds each. If it had been anyone else, any other time, it would have been a very erotic sight.

Except his body didn't get the message. His hips thrust up again of their own accord, once, twice, and when Victor reacted with no more than a quiet gasp that Yakov only felt against his hand, he started to slowly fuck him again, though he knew he shouldn't. But Victor was still there, hot around him, and he didn't do anything to beg Yakov to stop, and outside of Yakov's internal disgust it felt so _good._ And their captors didn't stop him like Yakov had assumed that they would, if they didn't just grab Victor off of him. When he glanced up, he did see several people send questioning glances at their leader, but he didn't say anything. Maybe this was part of the game for them, too.

So Yakov kept going, hating himself for it. Tried to get it over with as quickly as possible, tried to be gentle, tried not to think. When Victor was done with his hand, he sat up and let Yakov fuck him with a tired look and no resistance or participation. It was disturbing to see; Yakov ran a hand up his spine and tucked him back into his shoulder. Victor willingly slumped against him. No more fake noises, only the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Thankfully, it didn't take too much longer for him to finish, until his hips stuttered and his mind went blank and quiet. He leaned his head into Victor while he caught his breath, consciously relaxed the tight grip of his fingers so he didn't hurt Victor further.

He felt more relieved than anything, at least for a few seconds – it was over – until he remembered that meant that their captors would want to hurt Victor next. They weren't going for him just yet, though. Too many of them busy with their hands down their pants. Not the leader, but he had the air of someone waiting patiently for his turn.

Yakov pulled himself out and did up his trousers again. Victor grunted and started to move, shifting and swinging one leg over Yakov's so they were both on the same side and he was no longer resting his weight on his knees. He kept his face where it was, buried it further in when Yakov tentatively stroked his hair with the hand that wasn't helping to keep Victor upright.

Where the goddamn hell were the goddamn useless police? Yakov had done his best to stall for them, for how long now? And they hadn't yet appeared. This undisturbed moment wasn't going to last much longer, and then Victor would be....

Yakov glared down at the ropes that tied Victor's hands. The knot wasn't anything complex; he could have undone it in about two seconds if they weren't surrounded.

The leader stepped forward. Yakov instinctively pulled Victor closer to him. "I think you've enjoyed yourself with him for long enough, pretty," the leader said. "Why don't you come here?"

Victor did not move.

"I said _come here_ , pretty," and when Victor failed to do so, his patience apparently ran out; he reached forward for Victor's arms and ripped him from Yakov's grip, and Yakov hated that he had to let him go, otherwise he'd only end up more injured, he didn't want to—

Victor screamed at the top of his lungs, making every person in the room jump. As soon as he had his feet under him, he started to struggle. "Get off me," he cried, protesting even as the leader manhandled him around until the two were pressed up against each other.

Someone tapped Yakov's shoulder. He managed to pull his eyes away and glanced up to see the same woman who'd been in charge of him earlier. "Up," she said. So he stood, still watching Victor wriggling as the leader tried to sweet-talk and threaten him at the same time. He picked his coat up off the back of the chair, but couldn't seem to manage the presence of mind to put it on.

The leader forced Victor into a kiss, and he went quiet, deflated. Yakov felt sicker than he had been the whole time he'd been touching Victor, knowing that he was about watch Victor get forced down and raped by these awful people, that there was nothing else he could do about it. (Goddamn fucking useless police.)

Then the leader abruptly drew back and slapped Victor across the face, so hard he stumbled and fell to the floor. Yakov took a step forward, only to be stopped by the woman's grip on his elbow. "The kid _bit me_ ," the leader spat, a hand up at his mouth.

"I thought we gave him to his coach to soften him up!"

"Yeah, shouldn't he be fighting less, not more?"

"Shouldn't have given them so long afterward."

"Nah, should have had him suck him off, that would have shown him."

Victor climbed back to his feet by himself, just before someone came and grabbed him again. He stood there, visibly trembling, glaring, tears glinting in his eyes but not spilling from them. He probably shouldn't have done that, but Yakov couldn't help but feel a little proud of him anyway. The leader stepped forward and gripped Victor's hair again, not smiling, meeting Victor's glare. "Don't make this harder for yourself, pretty," he murmured, and the rest of the room quieted down.

They went just quiet enough that Yakov realized he could hear distant shouting. He wasn't the only one. A young man – very young, he could have been Victor's age – standing by the door turned, curious, then went to peer down the hall.

The leader took longer to notice, but he'd dropped his hands from Victor's hair by the time the young man ducked his head back into the room. "Boss, looks like there's trouble."

"You take care of him," the leader snapped, shoving Victor into the person holding him, who promptly passed him on to the same woman who had cut his shirt, and went to investigate. She herself didn't look particularly eager to hang back.

Yakov glanced over at the door and saw the woman who had been standing next to him now crowding around the entrance with everyone else (and _still_ holding her gun incorrectly, nevermind that she was going to shoot someone on her own side if she kept waving it around like that. Not that Yakov would be upset if she did).

He took a cautious step over and found that absolutely nobody was paying him any attention. He took another, and the woman holding onto Victor – who was still squirming in her grip, trying to pry her off – gave him a long look. Then she shoved Victor at him, giving him a look like _I already know you're not going to get him killed, so don't_ before going to join the rest of their kidnappers.

Victor cried out and tried to pull away before he seemed to realize who it was he'd been pushed into and blinked, looking more than a little confused. Yakov hastily pulled him into the nearest corner. "Watch your feet," he said, trying to shove the larger pieces of rebar and chips of concrete out of his way with his shoes. As soon as they were reasonably well into the corner, and thus far away from the commotion at the door, he said, "Show me your hands."

Victor did so; Yakov pinned his coat underneath his arm and untied them. It took a little more than two seconds, but not much more. He didn't wait for Victor to finish rolling out his shoulders, rubbing at his wrists, making tiny pained sounds, before he settled his coat over Victor's shoulders. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

He wanted to look Victor over, to check he wasn't hurt, but there was nothing to do for him right now if he was, and he could go a few moments without Yakov trying to touch him, so he merely watched as Victor shook out his hands, rubbed at his shoulders, before reaching up to clasp at the coat. Yakov was about to grumble about how there were buttons, he didn't have to hold it closed (and maybe start doing them up for him), when a gunshot from the hall made him flinch.

"Get down," he snapped when Victor tried to peer around him to see what was going on. Victor came down to the floor with him, still trying to see, until the second shot made him jump and he opted to bury his head in Yakov's chest instead.

Yakov draped an arm around him, careful. It was something of a relief that at least for now, Victor didn't seem to be wary of him. He tried to get a glance at what was happening himself, but most of their captors had disappeared by now, and this angle wasn't a good one.

But it seemed that the police were finally doing their goddamn jobs and had finally shown up. There was more shouting, not so many gunshots as he might have expected. He and Victor stayed put while the voices outside rose and fell, until people who were not their captors entered the room and came over to confirm their safety.

Yakov helped Victor to his feet, and when he _still_ kept holding on to the coat, began to do up the buttons before he froze to death. "Ah," Victor said as he started to button them, like he hadn't even noticed the buttons were there, and watched him do half the rest before shrugging his arms into the sleeves.

Now, it seemed, there was a lot of talking to do – to the police who whisked them to a warmer, less debris-filled room, to the medical staff who declared him to be fine. They seemed less sure about Victor, who besides looking like he'd probably been assaulted, had also gotten thrown around and banged up more than Yakov had.

But Victor didn't want to go to the hospital. "I want to go home," he insisted stubbornly even as one of the medical people brought Yakov over after asking if he might talk some sense into Victor. He cast Yakov a pleading look. Someone had given him a blanket, which he had draped over his lap, and his hands were clutching at it.

Of course he wanted to go home. Yakov sat carefully beside him – not too close – and said, "Vitya," which made him look away, which sent a tiny stab into Yakov's overworked heart. It was tempting to indulge him, but.... "Do you want to end up skating on an injury that needs to be treated and make it worse?"

As the seconds of silence ticked on, he ignored the look from the man standing next to them and waited for Victor to finally go, "No." He glanced up at Yakov again. "I don't have to," he started to say, stopped, and then asked, "But we can go home after that? After they check my x-rays or whatever?"

Yakov nodded. Another thought came. "And I'll call someone to look in on the dog, so don't go worrying about her," he added.

The corner of Victor's mouth twitched up for a moment. "Right, Makkachin's probably getting hungry." And then he looked away. Looked up at the man from EMS who was waiting. "Okay," he said.

He should have been feeding his dog right now, not trying to reassure someone that no, he hadn't hit his head that hard, his face so calm given what had just happened. Feeding his dog and fawning over her and using that ridiculous baby talk on her that Yakov could recognize from several rooms over.

Yakov hoped that their captors would pay for what they had done to them.

The police weren't done asking him questions, so Yakov started to rise; Victor's hand grabbing at his sleeve stopped him. "You'll be with me at the hospital," Victor said, halfway between a statement and a question, a thread of uncertainty in his voice.

He looked at Victor's hand and tried not to think about his own hands on Victor's skin. "Of course," he said gruffly. "Unless you wanted me to call your parents—" and given past experience with Victor and injuries and illness, he wasn't too surprised at the frantic way Victor shook his head. "Then let me go finish with them," he said, his voice coming out softer than he meant for it to.

Victor's hand tightened. Then it relaxed, let go. Yakov left him to the medical professionals and ignored the part of him that still wanted to check Victor over himself, as though he'd only fallen down a flight of stairs like he had last month. Then, Victor had acted impatient with him, but hadn't actually pushed as Yakov made sure that he wasn't hurt worse than a skinned knee and a bruised arm. Now, he slowly pulled his arms from the coat's sleeves and answered questions far too quietly as his wrists and hands were inspected.

Yakov turned away and went back to the questions and the talking. He had done what he could for the both of them, and Victor seemed to be doing well at holding up for now. Victor probably wasn't injured, and it appeared he didn't hate Yakov for what he had done; Yakov thought tiredly of how things could have turned out much worse, and then tried not to think of that, but of how in some hours they could go home.


End file.
